Jolly little lad,
With a chilling darkened mask,
Running rugged, running mad,
But he’s sure learning fast,
Flipping pages on his pad,
Yeah, it’s bleak and then it sucks,
But he’s warming to the match,
Work a day from dawn to dusk,
Jolly little lad,
On a boulder up a hill,
He’s convinced he’s so adept,
At these Army sanctioned drills,
All but safe he so attempts,
A regiment that gives me chills,
Making moves and making steps,
With a Rocky Stallion will,
Jolly little lad,
He’s a wacko in the mind,
Single focus on a goal,
Nothing scares him but time,
Ticking slowly chipping souls,
Watching pieces pass by rhyme,
And sorrow fester in a bowl,
He calls himself a scribe,
Living life inside a hole,
Writing through the warning signs,
Sighing at midnight crowy
caws
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